


it was a dark dream, darlin, it's over

by littleredcup



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-13
Updated: 2014-11-13
Packaged: 2018-02-25 06:00:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2611046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littleredcup/pseuds/littleredcup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’ll be figuring Dean out into old age. That much, Sam is sure of.</p>
            </blockquote>





	it was a dark dream, darlin, it's over

**Author's Note:**

> \- Vaguely set at the beginning of S10.  
> \- Beta read by [idiotbrothers](http://idiotbrothers.tumblr.com) and [temperatefelis](http://temperatefelis.tumblr.com/). Thanks guys! All other mistakes are my own.

Sam wakes to the sound of tires hitting gravel, his head bumping against the bundled-up jacket he’d propped between his temple and the passenger window, and the Impala slowing to a halt. He can tell they haven’t reached the bunker, and they’re definitely still on the highway somewhere, from the occasional whoosh of a car passing by, its headlights briefly illuminating the Impala’s interior.

"Where are we?" Sam croaks out, his throat sleep-dry and tight. He’d given up on waiting for Dean’s first move. If it was going to come it would come right after a hunt, a really good hunt, like this one. It was either feast or famine, Dean’s appetite every time one of them came back, and the last week had been a tense string of days of waiting for Dean to let Sam know which mood he was in this time around.

Dean cranks the car into park. The door whines open, a cool rush of air taking its chance to sneak in, and then he’s gone.

Sam sits up, groaning at the stretch of cramped muscle in his side. He rubs the sleep away, pushes his hair back, tries to make out Dean’s figure in the dark. He looks away, then down. Sam sits very still, hunched over and thinking nothing in particular, until he hears a rap of knuckles against his window and Dean’s muffled voice, “Get out.”

Outside, Sam can make out a familiar mile marker not far off and a bend in the road that tells him they’re just off the exit from the single-lane road that takes them home. He hesitates to close the passenger door, takes as long as his awkward, bundled arm will allow for an excuse to keep the little light the interior provides from shutting him out to the dark and Dean’s mood.

"What’s going on?"

"Come on, shut the door."

Sam shuffles awkwardly to the side. The only way to obey without slamming it shut from this position and sending a message he doesn’t mean, is to give his back to Dean. Neither prospect sounds appealing.

"Here," Dean says, reaching around Sam and pressing the door shut with a firm palm to the windowpane.

Sam blinks as his eyes adjust. Before he can ask another unanswered question, Dean’s hands are at the collar of his jacket, his touch is light, like he’s fixing something for Sam. They move down to the lapels, gripping tight. Sam’s stomach drops.

Dean pulls him down and Sam lets him. He thinks Dean’s going in for a kiss at first, but all he does is bring Sam close enough that their foreheads touch, and he feels the ghost of Dean’s breath against his lips.

"Say you didn’t miss this," Dean murmurs. He crowds Sam against the Impala’s side until his back hits cold metal and Sam has to grab at Dean’s shoulder with his good hand for balance. Sam’s mouth opens on instinct to the feeling of Dean pressing against him, his body lighting up, gut going tight, and Dean laughs.

"I thought so," he says, and he grabs Sam by the back of his neck and kisses him. 

It’s lewd instantly; Dean’s tongue pushing into Sam’s mouth, aggressive and wet and he grunts as he pushes his entire body against Sam now, hands sliding into Sam’s jacket to grip at his sides. Dean makes a small humming sound that Sam knows is a good thing, a sign that Dean is happy with what he’s getting. He pulls away so Sam can gasp for breath, only to bring a thumb up to smear roughly against Sam’s bottom lip, fixated completely for a second.

Sam waits, and breathes, lets himself grow pliant in Dean’s grip. His collarbone twinges just a tiny bit, a hot spike of pain travelling down his arm, and he winces, shifting to relieve the pressure.

"You alright?" Dean asks,

"I’m fine," Sam says. He waits for Dean to move again, but the spell is broken and Dean is frowning fixedly at Sam’s right shoulder, like it’s an intruder walking in on a private moment.

His hands drop from Sam’s body to his busted arm, and he fiddles absently with the sling’s cuff where fabric meets the skin on Sam’s wrist, smoothing his palm briefly against the black band keeping it tied to his waist.

"Alright," Dean says, disengaging. He jerks his head to one side, "Come on, we’re almost home."

**

They exchange a handful of words for the next two hours; _where do we leave the supply duffel; Clean your gun before you go to bed; I know, Dean._

Sam doesn’t know what to do with the silence. He hovers outside of Dean’s bedroom door on the way to his own, wondering if he’s standing in the shallow tide of an incoming wave, or if he’s simply imagining something where there is none.

In the bathroom he unbuttons his shirt slowly. He’s gotten good at doing everything he’s deemed essential with one hand, like handling his gun and driving a car. He can even hold his own in a fight--or at least better than most--and in a week or two the thing’ll be off. It’s a couple weeks shy of the doctor’s recommendation, but Sam figures if he’s dead because he’s still incapacitated when they start to really hunt again, then a fully healed collarbone won’t do him any good. 

He lets his arm dangle by his side as he finally slides his shirt off, tossing it onto the pile of dirty laundry in the niche behind the bathroom door. He bends forward at his waist, going through his exercises; making small circles with his hand that send brief rushes of feel-good pain from wrist to shoulder.

Sam feels Dean’s presence before he hears him. He opens the door to find Dean fiddling with the pistol Sam had left on his bedside table. He doesn’t look up to acknowledge Sam’s presence, but lifts the gun in his hand in question.

"You clean this out by your lonesome?"

Dean glances up as he asks, a sideways grin tugging at his lips. Sam breathes a little easier.

"Yeah, not as much as I used to, or half as easy."

 "Gotta show me that trick sometime," Dean says. His eyes slide up Sam’s bad arm. He doesn’t seem particularly interested in Sam’s state of undress, and Sam attempts to adjust, his brain scrambling to figure out what footing they’re on now.

"Where’s your sling?"

"Bathroom."

Dean brushes past Sam and emerges later with the item of interest in his hands.

"So," he says bluntly, "you’re gonna tell me the story behind this. The whole thing."

**

They’re parked half a mile from an abandoned farmhouse, two states away from the comfort of a steaming hot industrial grade shower and inches of thick spellbound concrete. They’d gone off road a good thirty minutes before but Dean seems to know exactly where to park the Impala, like there’s an invisible spot reserved just for them that only he can see.

“Should I even bother?” Sam asks, tiredly. He’d driven the first leg, then slept the second curled up in the backseat, with his legs bent at the knee and feet shoved against the inner paneling.

“Well it’s not a case,” Dean says, reaching back for the rifle Sam has lodged in the footwell, “Clue number one.”

Outside, Dean eases the trunk open, with enough stealth to let Sam know there might be someone nearby to hear them.

Sam surveys the landscape; rocky forest terrain meeting a dusky sky painted in hues of orange and purple. A flight of swallows settles in a far grove, blurry ink blots against a thick backdrop of branches. Ten feet off the earth gives way, dipping down into a small valley. When he approaches Sam spots familiar weather beaten wooden paneling, and a warped metal door that instantly twists his stomach into knots.

He swings back to Dean.

“The last time I saw that door I was bleeding next to it with a demon trying to dent my head in.”

“Aw come on, Sammy, you had Cas.”

“Cas couldn’t help,” Sam hisses, then instantly relents. His blood’s at his temples, and he knows Dean’s enjoying getting a rise out of him, but he can’t help it, “Or at least he tried, but not before this—” Sam jabs his slinged elbow in the air like an exclamation, “happened.”

Dean ignores him, fitting a flask of holy water into the inner pocket of his jacket.

“Well you don’t have Cas this time, you’ve got me. And I say we have a little chat and leave a couple of souvenirs of our own.” 

Sam’s first instinct is to push back, to grab at Dean and make him look Sam dead in the eyes and drop the act. He wants to see Dean’s anger, get at whatever’s really driving him, instead of the smug grin plastered on, as he arms himself, shuts the trunk, hands Sam his pistol.

“Devil’s trap bullets,” Dean says, “I need you on the South end in case someone comes out that way. Just stay alert and wait for my call. You’ll be fine.”

Sam catches Dean’s wrist before he can leave.

“It isn’t me I’m worried about.”

Dean looks from Sam’s hand at his wrist to Sam’s face, and there’s a moment where Sam thinks Dean will reply. But it passes. Sam sighs, lets his hand drop.

He climbs down the slope carefully after Dean, slipping in the sandy dirt and upturned roots, placing his feet where Dean hasn’t stepped.

**

The farmhouse makes Sam uneasy. The feeling doesn’t seem to abate, even though he’s approaching from the backside instead of the front. It’s the same sick, sense memory he gets when he hears “Motel California” or passes by a cemetery in the flat light of midday that takes him right back to Stull.

If there’s a fight it isn’t much of one. Sam hears a murmured shout, cut off quickly, the scuffle of feet against packed dirt flooring, and what must only be a body hitting corroded metal, sliding down with a muffled thump.

One demon tries to escape from Sam’s end. He splashes holy water on the kid, steam rising off of pockmarked skin and gets a good glimpse of angry, black eyes before he puts a bullet to its heart, halfway done with a whispered Rituale Romanum by the time it drops to its knees.

In the dead silence that follows, Sam rounds the flank of the dilapidated building, scanning as he approaches and shielding his bad side from the open space to his left. His sling catches, and then tears audibly on a stray nail embedded in the barn’s exterior. Sam pauses, listening. He hears Dean whistling before he sees him, pacing in front of the single body left breathing in the room.

The demon gives a hoarse cackle as soon as it sees Sam, spitting into the dirt besides him. It’s tied with chains at wrist and ankles, back to a thick wooden beam, blood oozing sluggishly out of a bullet hole in its chest. It peers at Sam through the one eye not swelling shut.

“So that’s what this is about,” it smirks.

“Did I say you could speak?” Dean asks. He points the demon blade in his hand towards the demon and nudges its foot with the toe of his boot.

“This the one, Sammy?”

Sam approaches slowly, stops. He keeps his gun out, keeps staring at the face he thought would be the last one he saw on earth, a crushing weight on his ribcage, the sour smell of chewing tobacco in his last gasps for breath.

“Yeah, that’s him.”

He doesn’t ask for Dean’s sources, doesn’t really want to know anymore.

Dean grabs the demon and pulls him to his feet. It yells out in pain, then laughs, then yells out again as Dean grinds the handle of the knife into its wound. He puppet-walks it towards Sam, holding it by the collar. It stumbles and hops with the chains wrapped around its ankles.

Sam’s still breathing hard, and his arm jerks up on instinct as they approach. Dean sees it and smiles, shakes his head slightly like Sam’s done something amusing.

When he’s near enough, Dean looks Sam straight in the eye as he stabs the demon with one swift motion, electricity sparking through its body, its mouth open in a silent wail.

**

They stop again on the way home, and this time Sam’s awake. He sees the mile marker in the distance of the Impala’s headlights before Dean shuts it off. They hadn’t stopped on the way back either, a straight shoot for the most part. Dean had grabbed his four hours in the backseat just like Sam, then whistled along to the radio for his bit of driving, happy to let Sam mull in silence.

“You could’ve just told me what that was about,” Sam says, once they’re both outside in the cold night air. It’s a little earlier this time around, a little more traffic flying by on the interstate. The shoulder they’re on consists of a few feet of gravel which quickly turns into miles of poorly fenced open land.

“Yeah? And had you tell me we didn’t need to do this, 'Let’s have a little R&R, Dean, let’s finish a week off.'"

Dean’s voice is mocking, but he’s smiling, fists jammed into his pockets, bouncing on his heels. He eyes Sam up and down for a second, Sam stands still and lets him. Dean’s always been a looker, in the active form of the verb. He can’t imagine Dean’s ever fucked of his own volition in the dark, under covers. At least not with him. He likes seeing all the ways he leaves his mark on Sam, savoring the before, the after.

And Sam kinda gets it, suddenly. Dean left and Dean came back and Sam wasn’t the same. Marked up and mussed by forces other than Dean, things Dean hadn’t seen or had any control over. The thought slides around in his head, viscous, alive, whispering into the crevices of Sam’s memory.

He shivers, and Dean approaches.

**

He’ll be figuring Dean out into old age. That much, Sam is sure of.

**

The Impala’s parked right where gravel meets prairie, so Dean settles against the passenger side and Sam drops to his knees where they can meet soft, wet mud, patchy with flattened grass.

Dean gently cards his fingers through Sam’s hair, brushing it away from his face, relaxing as Sam presses his cheek to Dean’s thigh. Sam feels Dean shifting beneath him and Sam acknowledges him, mouthing at where Dean is chubbing up inside his jeans, rubbing his cheek against the bulge there. Dean’s silent aside from his breathing. He moves Sam’s mouth against him with a hand to the crown of Sam’s head.

Sam tenses up when he hears another car rush by. He knows they shouldn’t be able to see anything, maybe just the back of Dean’s neck and shoulders if they’re really looking, but the open space and the nearness to the road has his face heating up regardless, a spiky ball of nerves and lust making his gut clench.

Whatever it is, Dean’s enjoying it a whole lot more. He’s practically humming by the time he unzips his fly and pulls out. Sam hooks his thumb through a belt loop and pulls Dean’s jeans to the side, partly to help with balance, but mostly to get at the base of Dean’s cock. He slides wet, pursed lips up Dean’s length then takes him in his mouth, hollowing his cheeks until the wet, tight heat makes Dean’s hips jump.

“Fuck, Sam,” Dean says. His grip tightens and relaxes restlessly in Sam’s hair.

Sam knows Dean’s body like the back of his hand, and he knows how good he can make it for Dean. How Dean gets off on it, ‘cause Sam is so good for him, but mostly ‘cause it’s just Sam. He doesn’t know if there’s anyone left in the world who’d leave a cooler full of beer and a vacation to walk into a demon infested barn because of him.

He sucks Dean off until his throat is sore and his neck aches, and opens his mouth as he pumps Dean to completion. He looks up to make sure Dean is watching, eyes dazed, cheeks flushed, and swallows deliberately, licking at his lips. Then opens again to show Dean how good he’s taken him, laps languidly at Dean’s length while he shivers, curses, whispers Sam’s name.

**


End file.
